Operation 52
by PlanetOfTheWeepingWillow
Summary: Kiku Honda revisits his days as a soldier, especially the mission he was sent out to do with a Feliciano Vargas and Ludwig. His tale is stained with blood and suffering, and something not quite of this realm of existence.
1. Part I

**Operation 52**

_**The Old Man's Story**_

_**Part I**_

The old man named Kiku Honda poured me a cup of tea. We sat in his house with the sliding doors wide open, so that the warm summer air could flow in freely. Trees surrounding his house were lush and glittering in the sunlight. He smiled politely at me as I took the cup, thanking him for it. He was an aged man, bent over with his years. Lines creased his face and his hair, once an inky black, was thinning and now took on a milky gray color. Even though he was going blind in one eye, he didn't spill a drop of tea. His hearing began to fail him, too, but that afternoon it seemed at its height, even though it was three weeks prior to his death.

"You've come here for a purpose, haven't you?" he asked, leaning back comfortably. He wore a clean kimono, washed by the maid who sometimes visited him to help prepare food and clean the house.

I nodded. "Yes. I hope I'm not taking any more of your time… but do you think you could tell me about Operation 52?"

Operation 52 referred to the army movement that included Mr. Honda and two other men. No information could be found anywhere about it, nowhere but in Mr. Honda's memory that is. I was writing a book at the time that described these hidden parts of society, things oppressed by society and forgotten by time.

Kiku Honda scratched his neck for some time, looking pensively at the sharp, clear sky behind me. "I suppose it is time someone found out about it. You said you were writing a book?"

I confirmed this.

"Ah, yes… Well, it's a very long story."

"I have all the time I want." I offered him an encouraging look. I really did have a lot of time. I was out of a job and this book was supposed to bring in a few extra bucks into my home situation. Besides, the topic just interested me.

Kiku Honda gazed off for a little while, supposedly collecting his thoughts. In the meantime I looked around his house. It was the barebones necessities. He had set up a table here for my visit and for lunch later. The kitchen and bathroom took up the other third of the house. Everything else was in that very room. He took out a futon and slept here. He rarely shut the sliding doors. There was no worry of burglary, since he lived in virtually no where, right in the middle of a dense forest, and he had nothing there to steal. The forest is impenetrable. How he made it out for morning walks failed to make any sense to me. The maid usually gets lost and I did too, coming here, even though I drove over. I had to abandon my car way back.

I lied. Actually there was one thing worth stealing in the house: the paintings. Kiku Honda, after returning from the war had taken up painting. He drowned himself in it. They were mostly water colors. Some were back ink, hosting only a single character done in the most remarkable handwriting. He had an elegant hand, and it still was, resting on the table, spotted with age but still containing all of its youth.

Kiku broke away from his thoughts and sipped his tea, beginning his story.

* * *

When I was drafted for the army, he began, I was still young. I was taller then, too. I had nice long black hair and a heart full of life. At first I was only an intelligence officer, working with translations and dealing with organizing all the data. The years were great. In fact, if you asked anyone in my division about the war we would have laughed it off. You see, no one really felt there was a war going on with such an easy-going atmosphere in my division. No one had even set foot in a battlefield at the time. We went out for drinks and to play pachinko often. I had a family back at home and they were relieved to find out that I didn't have to risk getting a bullet in my brain.

For a year it remained like this: I would sleep in the quarters, wake up, eat breakfast, work for a while, then go out with some friends before returning to bed.

Things changed when I was called into Operation 52. The men in charge told me that they had chosen me at random, but I doubt it to this day.

Before I get into the actual battle I should give you some clarity on my past, I suppose. I grew up in a more rural area of Japan, far from this place. I was always the odd child. Sometimes I'd see things that weren't there. I'd walk home from school with my head bowed because I swore the shadows were creeping up on me. They weren't, my mother told me, so don't act so foolish. I tried to convince people for some time, before I gave up and had to battle the images by myself. By the time I was twelve, however, things changed. Suddenly everything was off. It was as though one little atom had shifted and the universe shifted along with it. The world looked different to me, time ceased to be a factor. I could often tell people where they lost their keys or shoes.

I once told my mother that her favorite pearl earrings were not in that drawer but in a box in the closet, since father had hidden them there. She decided to verify this and found that I was absolutely correct. Rather than please her, this horrified her. She was certain I had psychic abilities and refused to let me share them. They subsided, or rather, were stifled by my sheer will. By the time I was nineteen I had nearly forgotten they exited. I thought that when I knew exactly where the cat had gone it was simple intuition rather than something ethereal.

I didn't think of them until I was assigned to Operation 52. I doubt that these men knew about the latent ability, I hid it so well, but there was always that chance. Furthermore, I was always a hard worker. I tried my best in my job and preformed it at an advanced level. In school I pushed myself to success, until there was no doubt as to who was at the top of the class. Even if I did drift away to play pachinko and drink beer, I felt I deserved it. Or perhaps it was a punishment for shirking my work. But then they would have had to punish the entire group.

Nevertheless, I went right in. I said goodbye to my group, got a few contacts, packed my bags, and went on my way. I met with my group, which I suppose could be called a regiment, after boarding a plane. I was not allowed to know where I was going. All I could tell my family back home was that I was going on a special mission and I would respond back as soon as I can. I mentioned that if I didn't respond for over a year for them not to worry. I assured them that I would try to be as safe as I possibly could be given the circumstances.

When I arrived I found myself in a grassy, mountainous area. The fields were bare except for a single cement building surrounded by a barb wire fence. It baffled me. Who would want to invade that place in the middle of nowhere? I figured that it must have held something deeply important. I was escorted by three armed men who kept looking around the field. Inside, I found my partners. They sat around in the cement building on wooden chairs, playing a card game. A fan buzzed in the corner, rustling their hair and the cards. I remember this moment clearly, as though it had embedded itself permanently in my mind.

My partners were two men, one from Germany and the other from Italy. The German was broad, well-built, and sat hunched over the table. He looked through the cards, touching them with thick fingers. His hair was a platinum blonde, brushed back at the temples and forehead, and his eyes were piercingly white. He greeted me with a stiff smile and a nod.

The other, the Italian, was of much smaller build. He was lean, but by no means bony. He had a healthy glow to his round cheeks and laughed often. His honey-colored eyes often looked off dreamily. His hair was long, the color of copper, and he constantly pushed it back. They were unremarkable gray uniforms, same as the one they gave me. I sat with them and we waited for our orders to come. I learned that the German was called Ludwig, for whatever reason he refused to give me his last name. The Italian was called Feliciano Vargas. His voice was sweet, almost like he was singing.

We talked about each other for a while. Feliciano explained that he was also a soldier and had only seen one battle, but it was just a small glimpse as he was riding past on a horse to deliver a message. Ludwig had been to a good many battles. He had killed a multitude of men. Just like he abstained from giving me his last name, he didn't talk about the battles. He said that he came from Southern Germany and lived with his older albino brother. Feliciano added in that he lived in Rome with his brother as well. He said that his brother was grouchy and, when drafted, ran away from his house. Feliciano didn't know where his brother was and it worried him.

I felt grateful then that I knew where my family was, safe and sound for the time being.

A lieutenant came in an hour after I arrived and gave us a very vague explanation of our assignment.

"You will leave tomorrow at five," he said, "Then you will board a helicopter and fly into the desert. From there you will head east until you come across Blue Wing station. There you will deliver an envelope, which I will give you tomorrow before your departure, and give it to a Mr. Jones. You'll know him when you see him. If you fail to deliver it, destroy the letter. Make sure that it does not leave your sight. However, you may not read it, under any circumstances. Supplies will be given to you upon arrival." He then went on to describe some of the dangers and to emphasize the importance of the mission.

When he left the three of us had a cold dinner from the cans that were stacked high in the single cabinet there. There was no furnace or stove or anything to produce heat. No bathroom either, now that I think of it. We had to shut off the fan since the temperature plunged at least ten degrees by nightfall. We slept on some mattresses that had been stacked against one wall. Feliciano and Ludwig fell asleep right away. They must have been here an entire day. I, however, couldn't sleep. I stayed awake a long time, thinking about how my life was opening up with all these new pathways.

In the morning we just barely had time to gather our belongings and eat a bare-bones breakfast. The lieutenant came up, followed by the roar of a helicopter. We went inside and left that mysterious field, climbing higher and higher into the sky, until we could see nothing but wispy, white clouds.

"Why can't you deliver the message, sir?" Feliciano asked suddenly. He asked in English, a language we all had to use to understand one another. I knew a little bit of Russian and a good deal of Chinese, besides Japanese of course, and English I had to learn in college anyway. Ludwig knew German, Russian, and nearly perfect English. Of all of us, Feliciano's English was the worst, but he knew French, Spanish, and Portuguese flawlessly, so there was no room to complain.

"We don't want to be caught overhead and shot down. The only way you can get through is on foot. We will provide some horses, so don't worry," the lieutenant called over the roar of the helicopter.

We arrived not long after. The helicopter landed smoothly and we hopped out, finding ourselves in the midst of a bivouac. Several horses were tied up to a fence, surrounded by backpacks. The lieutenant led us there. If there were soldiers in the campus they did not show their faces, or even make any sort of sign to indicate their presence.

The horses were healthy and their black coats gleamed. The backpack contained several rations of food, canteens of water, and some other supplies. We were all given guns. Feliciano had a saber already with him and slung the rifle over his back. I got a firearm and a bayonet. Ludwig got a hefty looking tool just short of a machine gun. All this time he had not said a word.

The lieutenant took a leather pouch from his side, where the letter was located, and gave it to Ludwig. He reminded us not to lose it, to protect it with our lives, and never, under any costs, let it get to the enemy.

During the first five minutes of riding on that horse, I felt very nervous. It was as though all the pressure put on to me had rolled itself into a tight ball, placed inside my belly and buzzing with an electric pulse. I had a job of such importance that I couldn't let anyone down. I resolved to end my life if I needed to. But at the same moment those latent psychic abilities raised their pale heads, telling me that I _can't_ die there, no not yet.

These abilities I do not claim to be of some extreme extent. I couldn't tell your fortune even if you wanted me to. Sometimes I just_ knew_ things, just as you know not to touch something hot or step into a crocodile infested body of water.

I didn't tell my teammates, not yet, though.

The desert stretched on and on, rolling into the horizon but not ending there. The dust was pale and grainy, hard like rocks in some places, but in other so soft that the horses nearly fumbled several times. Dry grasses cropped up in several areas, swaying only when we past them. There was no wind. The air was dry, chapping our lips and stinging our eyes. The sky overhead was another deal altogether.

I never saw a sky like it ever again. It was so deep, so layered. I could see where the sunlight shot its rays through. I could see where the clouds topped on another. And when the sun set and my group settled for the night in the shelter of some dune, not daring to light a fire for fear of our smoke attracting an enemy, the red light bled through the sky. It was as though someone had poured their own blood down a fabric. It seeped through the sly, staining the clouds and dripping down slowly, until it was overcome with night. Evening was the color of bruises. Night was just as beautiful. I didn't sleep right away when we unrolled our sleeping bags. Instead I looked up at the sky. The stars strewn across the sky twinkled. They were clear and bright, like gems pressed into the soft darkness of the sky.

Feliciano stayed up with me and watched them. Ludwig, being a no-nonsense fellow fell asleep with a disgruntled look on his face. One night, our fifth night of travel, he told me a story about those stars. He said that when he was really little he lived with his grandfather. By some miscommunication he was parted from his brother for some time. His grandfather would take Feliciano up to the highest hill, where only a spidery tree stood, its emerald leaves sparkling in the moonlight, and he would sit down there. He sometimes brought snacks or drinks, but usually he just brought a blanket to sit on. He would lay down, with Feliciano at his side. He'd raise a hand and point to different constellations, weaving a web of story after story. He filled Feliciano's head with beautiful fantasies. None of them ever left Feliciano's head. Even if the main character's name or the plot was not easily recalled, he could remember the essence of the story. He could describe in detail how the story of this constellation felt. He could tell you how the character felt throughout the story.

The night, several weeks in—I lost count how many—he told me about the hero who raised a city from its ruin, he offered to take sentry duty. I felt sleepy from listening to Feliciano's story that I agreed at once. I went into the tent, next to Ludwig, and fell asleep.

The next morning I woke to the sound of thudding boots. I pried my eyes open, feeling distinctly sore, and something hit my forehead. I blacked out for a moment, confusion stirring my soul. When I came to again I tried to stand but found several guns directed at my forehead. The men holding them were foul smelling soldiers in clean uniforms and expensive boots. They grinned at me and poked my head several times with the bayonet. I felt blood dribble down my temple, falling into my eyes, and slipping into my mouth. I didn't comprehend what was happening. This was no way real. This must have been a nightmare. Slowly I shifted my eyes around to see everyone else.

Ludwig was prostrate, immobile on the ground and being held down by grimy looking blades. Feliciano had fearful, wide eyes that met with mine. He gave me a very faint wink, so faint that I didn't think I ever saw it in the first place.

The soldiers grabbed me by my hair and tugged me up, tearing off a bit too. The searched our tent. Two kept watching us, holding guns at Feliciano and I. Ludwig was beginning to wake up. They pulled him up gruffly. He had a nasty welt across his cheek.

The soldiers rifled through our belongings, throwing things they deemed useless out of the tent and stealing things they liked. Next, they stripped us. They took our clothing and poked through it, grumbling in some language I could not understand. They found the leather pouch in Ludwig's pocket and grinned again, tearing it open.

It was empty.

Ludwig's expression briefly changed, becoming concerned, but it shifted too quickly for anyone to notice. I still felt daze. Blood began to clot at the wound and dry on my face. I blinked some away. I made to wipe it off but the gun jabbed my chest. I stopped and stiffened yet again.

They ordered us in barking voices to exit the tent. We went with our heads down, out a little ways from the tent. One of them, in the most expensive suit and hefty gun, turned to Ludwig. He spoke in a language I could barely understand. I understood something about the letter and punishment. Ludwig replied stoically, but I could see the fear poisoning his eyes.

The leader cocked his head and Feliciano and I were tossed to the ground harshly. They tied our hands and feet, so that we sat facing the leader. Ludwig was brought forwards and the leader continued to leer in a slimy voice, indicating obvious pleasure in his job.

They set Ludwig on the ground, on a flat board, and then brought another one over. They placed it atop him, sandwiching him between two slices of wood. He did not make a sound. Continuing to speak, they slowly gathered around it, all taking a seat with a paper bag in their hands. Five of them sat atop the plank. They began to eat and chat, as though having a regular old dinner party.

Ludwig then, as the pressure increased, began to scream. I shut my eyes, feeling sick. The soldier butted my head with his gun until I opened my eyes again. Blood squirted out of Ludwig as he was slowly compressed. He continued to scream. The scream haunts me. I hear it in my dreams. When I shut my eyes I can see his bones and muscles being crushed as more weight was being added to the plank. His hand fell out to the side, writhing and turning red then purple then blue.

Feliciano, beside me, vomited until he had nothing left in him. Then, he vomited again.

They continued this until Ludwig's animal screams ended. They gurgled to a stop, ending in a whimper, like an animal giving out its final cry. Standing up, they pried the plank off. Blood and skin and flesh clung to the top flank, stuck there by force. Ludwig's body was nothing a mashed corpse. His eyeballs had left his skull. A soldier stepped on them. Liquid spurted out from it like a crushed grape. They huddled around the body, defiling it with urine.

Feliciano was crying hoarsely, pleading, praying. I wanted to hug him but I couldn't. All I could do was watch the misery…

* * *

Here Kiku paused. His expression was unmoving, morose and frigid, as his mind trailed back to that time.

"How did you escape?" I asked, aghast.

He shook his head. "There is much more left to the story. I'm truly sorry, but I don't think I can go on today. Come by tomorrow for the rest, if you still wish to hear it."

I agreed to do so, bidding him farewell and favoring him with a bow.

As I left his house, hearing him stand up and make himself dinner, I thought back to the events. The images painted in my mind burned with memory and suffering.

I had a strange feeling that that was only the beginning.

* * *

_I do not own Hetalia_

_This was inspired by The Wind Up Bird Chronicle. _


	2. Part II

**Operation 52**

_**The Old Man's Story**_

_**Part II**_

I dug through the forest, trying to find where I left my car. I guess it really isn't my car, exactly. It's a rental car that I'm using for my stay here in Japan. This of course only heightens my wariness of it. If I get so much as a scratch on it I doubt I could forgive myself. However, I do finally end up finding it, out on the dirt road. I climb in and sigh deeply. Not that sighing helps, no, but it's some way of relieving the heavy feeling in my chest. Honda's story began to dig deep into me just now. While listening to it I felt a sort of unreality. I felt as though it was just a tale you could read in a book with a disclaimer at the beginning warning you that none of it is real. But it was all too real. The suffering, the crushing, all of it happened to Kiku. I could see the memories etched into his eyes, even into the very way he moves.

As I drove back to my hotel, my thoughts drifted back to what Kiku told me at the beginning. His psychic abilities did not surprise me. In fact, when I contacted him some months ago, when I was still in Ottawa, he told me I should watch out for my brother. It shocked me then, though. He only let it slip in somewhere in the middle of his letter that welcomed me to his house, all written in his neat, fine handwriting. I didn't recall ever telling him I even had a brother.

I didn't think much of it at first. I assumed it was an old man's senile ravings that happened to be somewhat accurate. It was when my brother, living currently all the way in Manhattan, got into a car wreck did I realize that Honda's words were all too true. My brother lived through the accident just fine but the person he hit died on the spot, with an infant in the back bawling madly. I spent a week with Alfred, tending to his broken ribs and dealing with the insurance and all that. When Alfred was finally able to move around enough to take care of himself, I went to Japan. I was hesitant but he insisted.

I planned on asking Honda for further advice about him when I went by the next day.

I reached the hotel and parked in the back. I got out, shouldering my bag with all my documents and money ready. I went inside and smiled politely at the woman sitting in the front desk. She smiled back and asked if I had a good day, and if I would like recommendations for a restaurant that night. I declined the offer and went to my room. I wasn't very hungry anyway.

Later that night I regretted not going out, since my stomach started to protest with pangs of hunger. I dug around the little fridge and picked out a can of beer and some chips from the other cupboard. I ate that and settled for some time, flipping through the TV channels. The room was small, just barely enough to accommodate for me. It didn't matter. I was usually out during the day. I would be here for a week, two at most. This was my second day staying there. I had to go around the city working up the courage to talk to Honda before that.

I fell asleep with a half empty can of beer and a crumpled bag of chips on the night stand. Anyone who went in would expect me to be some sort of runaway crashing at a hotel for some time, but no one would come in anyway.

I was a sort of runaway, I suppose. I graduated college a year back, having studied Japanese and furthered my French and English. I got a job in the meanwhile at a dry cleaner's while I waited for an opportunity to arise. It never did and I was left without much hope for my future. I lived a good long ways away from my family, in a rented apartment that didn't cost much for me to live there.

I suppose it was there, in the quiet dry cleaners with the radio blasting some reggae music that I decided to quit the job and write a book. Everything took off from there on.

I fell asleep musing about the world and how little I knew of it. I listened to the cars zipping past outside and the chatter of some teenagers escaped from home, ready to be wild and dangerous.

The next morning I ate in the hotel. I was up first, earlier than anyone else, and so I had the entire room to myself. Only a waitress, a small, timid looking girl accompanied me, going back and forth through the halls and talking in a tiny voice to her coworkers in the hall. I ate oatmeal, some toast, and an egg. It was hardly enough to satisfy me, but I could get seconds at any time.

I didn't want to go back to Honda's place any earlier than I had to, so I lingered in the hotel and eventually cruised around the city. Some people tried to speak to me but I could barely understand what they were saying. Japanese could be hard on me sometimes. I could read it just fine, no matter how advanced and how much kanji is used, and I understood the woman at the lobby and Mr. Honda just fine. I supposed they knew I was a foreigner, with curled mousy hair, being rather tall and hunched over, and my lumberjack build. I pushed my glasses up unconsciously and finally drove to the forest.

I parked in my usual spot and made my way through the dense forest. A cat sprang out from under a bush and flicked its tail at me. It stopped in my path and regarded me lazily. It squinted it eyes, as if deciding if I was an interesting specimen or not. It was a dainty, long Siamese cat. Its tail was black as ink, flicking on the ground. Its delicate paws padded the ground. A pink tongue slipped through its lips like a flame, licking around its mouth. It must have just eaten. I felt nervous, not wanting to cross it.

"Hello, Mr. Cat," I said jokingly, hoping it would get out of my way.

The cat slunk away, slipping back into the forest and leaving no trace that it was there. Its steps made no sound.

I crossed the forest and entered a clearing where Honda's house stood. As usual, the sliding doors were wide open. Honda was nowhere in sight. I didn't want to barge in so I waited at the front, standing idly. The sun poured light into the clearing, like pouring water into a basin. The trees cast shadows on the ground, speckled with light. It was overall a warm day. Clouds gathered in the sky, threatening rain soon.

"You're quite early, Mr. Williams." A familiar voice said behind me. I whirled around, my heart racing.

Once I saw that it was Mr. Honda, I relaxed and chuckled uneasily, trying to pretend I wasn't scared. "I'm sorry, Mr. Honda. How are you today?" I asked.

"Excellent. It's rain soon, I believe." Mr. Honda said, glancing up at the sky. His hands were clutched behind his back. Evidently he had been out for a morning stroll. How he didn't get lost was beyond me.

I nodded. "Looks like it could be heavy, too."

"Yes… but it'll clear up by night time. We'll see a very nice full moon tonight, too, I believe."

I paused, biting the corner of my lip. I figured there was no harm in asking. "Is that one of those things you just know?"

To my surprise, Mr. Honda laughed. He didn't laugh long, but overall it was very pleasant. If it breaks one's heart to see an old man cry, it heals it to see one laugh. "No," he shook his head, "I know that from the weather forecast on the radio. And the calendar said it would be a full moon. It would be a useless talent to tell the weather. It would get dreadfully boring after a while… now, do come in." He started towards his house, slipping off his shoes and entering it. From the bathroom and young woman, the maid, exited. She held a wet towel and greeted me politely, going over to the large bag that sat in the corner and digging around for the rest of her cleaning supplies. I hadn't noticed her before. She moved like a cat, slipping in and out of the shadows noiselessly.

"Sakura, could you possibly brew us some tea?" Mr. Honda asked her politely. She looked up and nodded, pulling off her plastic gloves and nodded.

She was a small young woman, hardly older than twenty five, but I couldn't tell. Her hair was cut evenly around, ending at her chin. Her bangs were just short of falling into her soft, docile brown eyes. She wore a red summer dress and tights beneath. It would have been easier to wear jeans while she cleaned. I remember thinking that at the time.

I sat down at the table, across from Mr. Honda. While the kettle bubbled on the stove, he told me about his adventures in the forest.

"I came across a Siamese cat, actually. I sat down and had a long conversation of it. Sometimes cats are much more pleasant to talk to than humans." He said.

"You can speak with cats?" I asked, then regretted it at once.

Mr. Honda simply smiled.

"Well, actually, I saw that cat too, just before I got here."

"Oh? She's a very interesting one, I'd say. Her name's Phoebe. Her owners are literature enthusiasts."

We fell silent for some time. Sakura brought over the cups of tea and set them down, handing one to both of us.

"Do you want some sugar, sir?" she asked me.

I declined the offer.

She left and continued to clean. She gazed at the vacuum and then thought better of it, setting it aside and finding a broom instead.

Kiku Honda sipped his tea, gazing off pensively. "I am feeling quite refreshed today. I believe we can get on with the story right away. Are you sure you want to hear the rest, Mr. Williams?"

I hesitated. I didn't know quite why I was taken aback. I expected to launch right in, my notebook in hand, retrieved from my satchel. Now that my opinion was asked I began questioning it myself. Did I really want to hear the rest? Or would I live my life more easily without it?

Then again I would never hear the rest of the story anywhere. I had a feeling that the time to take the chance was finite. Not like how Mr. Honda knew, of course, but just a feeling inside my gut. Slowly, I began to nod.

"Yes, yes I want to hear the rest."

Mr. Honda nodded. "If you need me to stop at any point just say so. And don't stop me for my sake. I've never told this story to anyone in my life. You are the first person to hear it, keep that in mind. If I didn't want you to hear it I never would have invited you into my home in the first place." His lips curled into a warm smile. It kindled something inside me. The something was light as hope, as airy as bliss, and also as damp as sorrow. I felt like crying and sniffed several times to get rid of the urge.

"Please continue on, Mr. Honda."

Where did we last leave off? Mr. Honda began. Ah, yes, of course. We ended at the point where they took Ludwig. After Ludwig was dead the leader came over to me. He spoke in perfect English to us both.

"What a waste of energy. He didn't seem to know where the message was." He told us. I remember smelling the metallic tang of blood. The smell was like two knives digging into my brain. I can still smell it now. The other men began to take Ludwig's body away, dragging blood behind him. The way it pooled after his mutilated body reminded me of a shadow growing longer as the sun sets behind an object. It made me sick and I vomited then and there.

The leader regarded me in disgust and stepped away from my sick.

"You do know what I'm talking about, don't you?" he persisted.

Neither Feliciano nor I made any indication that we had even the remotest idea of what he was talking about.

"Well why else would you be out in the middle of the desert?"

"We're searching for an outlaw," Feliciano said suddenly. I turned my head to face him. A soldier kicked my back and I snapped my head forwards again. The pain spiraled out of the place of impact like blood diffusing through water.

"Is that so?" the leader said in an amused tone. He could tell Feliciano was lying, but it entertained him to play with it for a little bit, like a cat batting around a mouse before it intended to kill it.

Feliciano nodded, his eyes set. I noticed a line of blood dribbling down his neck from a small cut that was there. "Yes. We were sent by a third party group outside of the government. They did not want a group made up solely of one nationality, so they chose us, to decrease losses I suppose. They set us out here on horseback so we wouldn't get caught. I suppose it was useless either way. We were supposed to look for a vagabond scouring these lands acting as a spy against us. I think he probably carries that message that you want so badly."

"I see," the leader said slowly, kicking up dust with a dry scarping sound. "Is this true?" He asked me.

I said that it was.

The leader made a big show of sighing, dropping his shoulders and holding out his hands. He shook his head, "I don't know what to say. I'm awful sorry. Unfortunately, I don't believe a word you dirty liars just said to me. There are ways of making you speak, of course, and none of them are very pleasant."

I wondered if I would die.

Then, just like I knew where my mother's earrings were, I knew that I would not die. I would die in Japan, far away. I would somehow live through all this. I felt sick again and shut my eyes. Despite the pounding of boots at my back, I refused to open my eyes until the nausea passed. I wouldn't succumb to the weakness, I told myself. I would not.

The leader reached over and grabbed Feliciano by his hair, tugging him up gruffly. The line of blood, drying now, kept going down his neck like a bead of sweat. They heaved him over to where Ludwig had been crushed, making him stand. His body was thin and bony. His knees knocked together and with every breath his ribs heaved, protruding out of his skin, metal bars against silk.

"What should we do with you?" the leader said, walking around him. "We'll have to torture the information out of you regardless, so why not make it interesting? You can make the pain stop right now if you want. All you have to do is tell us where the damned message is. Is that clear?"

"Clear as crystal," Feliciano replied stiffly, looking straight ahead.

He used to strike me as a weak individual. I thought for certain he would break down in tears at any moment, bawling and revealing our secret—if he knew where that message was, that it. I began to wonder what had happened to it, but ceased thinking about that at once, in case my facial expressions gave anything away. Feliciano surprised me with his courage. He stood there like a stature, brazenly accepting anything that would come his way. Had Ludwig been alive he would have been pleased. Ludwig seemed to have a dim hope for Feliciano that he always stifled when the Italian showed signs of cowardice. Ludwig would have been proud, suffice to say.

"I know exactly what we shall do," the leader said and called to his cohorts in a throaty language. The man stepped forwards, brandishing a long, thin blade. "I will describe it to you in detail, so you will still have time to think. Now, what we'll do is set you down all nice and cozy. We'll tie you up so you don't squirm, and then we begin by cutting your hair off. Not too bad, I know. Then we will cut your eyelashes, your genitals, your fingers—a little at a time—and then the rest of you until you're nothing but a bunch of chopped up little pieces. It will be a slow, painful death. We won't get to your vital organs for a very long time, so there will be none of that easy sort of death. My cutter here was a butcher in his hay day. He's the best in town, so they say, and I'm sure he'll make this as perfect as possible. Since he needs to be so accurate this may take a while. You can still cough up the information now and save yourself the trouble."

Feliciano drank this all in without batting an eye. "No," he said after a slight pause. "I'm sticking to my story."

Shrugging, the leader ordered for his men to tie Feliciano down, "very well then."

When the men grappled with Feliciano's limbs, tying them down to a stake, his eyes met with mine. I couldn't tell what Feliciano wanted to convey in that one look. I guess all he meant was to say good-bye. However, I caught a hint of an apologetic edge to the look as well. But what did he need to be sorry for?

Once he was tied to the stake, the man with the blade came up to him. The knife glinted in the harsh sun. Heat radiated from the ground, blurring everything before my eyes. I had no choice but to watch my friends die. I didn't want to look but I had no choice but to fasten my eyes on the scene, since one of the men had pinched my chin and thrust my face in that direction. His hands were hot and sweaty, smearing grime on my already dusty and bruised face. My head throbbed with pain and the onset of a fever. Although we had been there for hardly a half day, it felt like years. I still couldn't believe that this was all real, that I was even a soldier to begin with. I wanted nothing more than to be at home, sleeping comfortably and eating sweets while watching the little pond by my house.

Feliciano watched the knife without comment, tracking its each and every move. The man then placed a thick, hairy finger on Feliciano's shoulder and drew a line of reference. Grunting to himself, he raised the blade and took Feliciano's neck in his other palm, pushing it down. He began by chopping off Feliciano's hair. The curly copper chunks fell to the ground at Feliciano's feet, leaving his head without a scratch. The man was precise down to the very last follicle. Still, Feliciano made no sound. He put his palm on Feliciano's forehead and shoved his head up, cutting away the eyelashes and brows. Next his genitals were hacked off, leaving Feliciano dripping with blood and groaning in pain. However screams did not leave him yet. His fingers were cut off a knuckle at a time, then his palm, and then his arms up to the elbow. Blood fell to the ground thickly, flowing on the ground like a lake. Feliciano's toes were given the same treatment, then to the ankles, then to the knee, and then the thigh in slivers, slow and delicate portions were taken off.

Now Feliciano screamed. His screams pierced the air, long, hard, worse than Ludwig's. He screamed himself hoarse, screamed until his cries were just silent hollers. Feliciano's body hung on the stake, bleeding where the limbs should have been. The man then pinched Feliciano's lips and sliced them off, exposing his yellowed, dirty teeth smeared with blood. His ears and then his nose went. The man's back was to me, I couldn't tell what he was doing at first, but when two white orbs fell to the ground and cracked I knew that Feliciano was blind. He lost consciousness several times and his groaning ceased, until he woke up with a fresh batch of cries. The sky darkened around us. Finally they worked on his torso, slicing it off then shred at a time.

All I did was weep and vomit. My face was bathed in tears and my mouth dripped blood, since there was nothing left in my system but the thick blood that fed my organs and muscles. The same blood that now fell from Feliciano in waves.

They stopped abruptly once they reached Feliciano's stomach and started to grumble. The man stepped away to show a piece of paper, unreadable and consumed by acid.

I understood it all at once, then. Feliciano had swallowed the envelope when he saw the men coming, risking his own life for that precious message. They cursed, or rather made some signs that resembled swearing, and stomped the paper down to bits.

Some scowled at me and dispersed from the crowd, leaving Feliciano's trembling body on that stake, dismembered. His head hung low and dripped crimson liquid.

The leader made some quick gestures, frightened as to what their head honcho would do to them for losing the message. They vanished just as quickly as they came, leaving me with what was left of Feliciano. I suppose they left me to rot, and I nearly succumbed to that fate. I stayed there, sitting in the dust with my hands tied behind my back. Feliciano moaned and screamed and whimpered until he died early the next morning….

Mr. Honda stopped again, looking pale.

"Should I come back tomorrow, sir?" I asked.

He gazed at me for some time with a cold expression, as though not comprehending what I had said to him. Apparently his mind was still back in that time, still lost in the abyss of his memories. Outside the rain began to pour down more heavily. By the middle of his story it had begun to spray lightly. Rain pattered against the roof, splashing into the dirt and trees.

Finally, he began to nod. "Yes, I do believe that would be the case again. I apologize, but I am too weak to continue. I'm nearing the end of my life, and I want to complete the story before I reach it. But to do that I need to recollect my energy, as you understand."

Behind him, Sakura stood looking uneasy. She had unwillingly listened in. Her ear caught a few words that hooked her into the story and she couldn't disentangle herself from it. She began to scrub more quickly, to make up for the lost time.

Mr. Honda looked over his shoulder. "Don't worry, Sakura, you can stay a bit later. I'll pay you however much you need for that. I'm sorry you had to listen in to such a horrible story."

She apologized for eavesdropping and thanked him, "I don't need extra pay, I'll do the rest as reimbursement for the time I lost," and she continued to scrub.

I stood up and thanked Mr. Honda for sharing his story.

"Are you not coming back?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Oh, yes I will, but I wanted to thank you for it now anyway."

"I see." He continued to stare at me, as though he had something else to say.

"Is there something else you'd like to add?" I asked, going to the sliding doors and collecting my shoes. I shook them to get rid of the rain water.

"Are you still planning on writing that book?"

I hesitated. "I…" I curled my lower lip in and bit it, rubbing it under my teeth as I thought. "I think I will, yes. I don't think it will be quite how I planned, however."

"Isn't that the norm with books, eh?"

I agreed and hopped down to the dirt road, bidding Mr. Honda farewell.

"I'll see you tomorrow then."

When I went to the car, ducking from the rain and taking less time than before to find it, I considered going somewhere before returning to the hotel. Mr. Honda has been so nice to me lately, I may as well give him a gift of some sort.

I drove over to the nearest shop and counted my money. I had sapped most of my savings on this trip and had just a few dollars to make do. The present wouldn't be very fancy or big, but it's the thought that counts, right? I told myself this as I got out of the car and entered the shop. I expected to have Mr. Honda's story still echo in my ears while I browsed, but nothing came. Instead, my mind was completely blank. What little of it that worked centered on the idea of a gift. The shop sold all sorts of trinkets. Traditional objects lined the shelves, some clothing hung on racks. It was dark and gloomy inside, being shut out from the outside by all the posters and pictures hanging on the walls, so many that they had been plastered over the windows. Fluorescent lights illuminated most of the shop, giving it that eerie, extraterrestrial feel to it. The store smelled of spices.

I looked through the cat figurines. One caught my eye. It was a glass orb, just within my budget. It depicted a black cat slinking away into the night. The stars had been burned into the glass around it and when I turned the object around in my fingers it looked like the night sky was shifting, even though the cat remained in place, one tiny paw raised and its green eyes staring intently at something not inside the orb but not outside of it either. I took it and then thought about getting my brother a souvenir. I settled on keychain with a wooden samurai figure dangling on the end. It was something he would enjoy, I figured. I paid for the gifts and had them wrapped in brown paper, tied with a gritty string. The woman at the desk, elderly and short, asked who they were for.

"They're for my brother and a good friend of mine," I explained. She was too sweet to ignore.

"Can't I interest you in a headband for that young lady?"

I declined on the basis that I had no young lady of which to speak of in my life. She clicked her tongue and bade me off with a broad smile that warmed me and set me in a good mood for the rest of the day. I went to the hotel and put the gifts in my bags, and then left to go to a diner nearby, since I didn't want to blow any more money than I had to on a restaurant. I ordered the cheapest fish off the menu. As I waited, I scanned the crowd. My eyes fell on a certain old man in the distance. He was bony and picking at his rice with disinterest. What drew my attention to him was his albinism. His hair was a snowy mess and his red, bright eyes darted around the room. They briefly met with mine before he looked away, his shoulders hunched forwards. He then began to eat. The waiter brought me my food and I ate. By the time I finished he had left.

I wondered if that had been Ludwig's brother.

The more I pondered it, the more certain it became. Feliciano still had a brother. If he had not died of old age or had been hunted down by the military, then he was bound to still be alive. And maybe they would still be curious as to what happened to their brothers. As far as they knew, their brothers had died in combat and their bodies were never recovered.

After eating the sky had darkened considerable. I thought back to how Kiku sat, watching Feliciano die and being unable to do nothing while the sky dimmed around them. The rain had stopped and the world was tinged with that sweet after-rain smell. The trees glittered with the droplets of water still hanging on them. Everything seemed at a standstill in time, totally at peace. I took a deep breath of that delicious air and went back to the hotel.


	3. Part III

**Operation 52**

_**The Old Man's Story**_

_**Part III**_

The next morning I ate breakfast again at the hotel. This time there was another patron, despite it being so early. I regarded him carefully and affirmed that it was the same albino man as before. He sat in the far back of the hotel, wiping the eggs of his plate with a piece of toast. Today he wore a military uniform. It made him look younger, somehow, almost like it brought back the young man of days yonder.

He wasn't too far from me, in fact, I could probably hold a conversation with him from here. He didn't seem to notice me, however. If he really was Ludwig's older brother I could get some information out of him, I was sure. But that may end up as a longer story still.

"Um, excuse me?" I called over to him.

He perked up his head and squinted at me, pausing his chewing.

"Yes…?" he responded.

"I—I'm very sorry to bother you during breakfast—but is it possible, sir, that you could answer a question for me?" I fumbled, trying not to mess up my words and somehow make it seem like an insult.

He gave me a questioning look, "Well, spit it out."

"Are you, by chance, the older brother of someone named Ludwig?"

He flinched at the sound of the name and ducked his head. His eyes widened and he became suddenly very interested in his water, stirring it with his finger. Brushing his hair away from his eyes with several withered fingers, he didn't answer for some time.

"I'm sorry if I asked a bad question," I began but he hushed me with a wave of his hand.

"No," he said and stood up, coming over to my table and pulling up a chair. From this distance I could decipher his features better. His face was oval shaped and pale. He must have been a striking young man back when he was younger, extremely handsome even. Now he still retained some his dignified days of youth, but most of it had fallen away, like leaves from an aging tree. "I'm Gilbert Bielschmidt, by the way."

"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bielschmidt, I'm Matthew Williams."

"Let's speak in French," he said, switching over with surprising fluency. "I feel like that would be easier for the both of us."

"Yes, I suppose that would be better."

Gilbert shifted, clearing his throat. He gazed around the room and, after a slight pause, fastened his eyes on me.

"Yes, my younger brother is named Ludwig."

"Was he on Operation 52?"

"Yes."

"Oh…"

Gilbert offered me an encouraging smile. "Don't worry. I need to confront the pain sooner or later, so I better do it now. It's true. My brother went on this mission with two other men. I received his letter telling me this too late. I had been doing some military operations as well, more of a lackey than an actual soldier, I suppose, but I was there nonetheless. I shot several bullets, I hit several men, and I did some other things I'm not very proud of. When I got the message I didn't think much of it. He rarely expressed emotion and the letter was no exception. It was formally written, telling me not to wait for him and to not worry too much over it. I was a naïf kid back then, so I thought it was pretty cool that he had been sent out on that mission. In fact, I was jealous. Needless to say, I'm not anymore. After he did not come back I felt a deep, moving sort of sorrow that lasted for a long, long time after. I got notice of his death just as I returned home. You can imagine the amount of emotions that went through my head…"

"I'm very sorry," I said sympathetically.

"Don't be… But how did you know about that Operation? I thought that information was under lock and key."

"Word got out," I lied. For some reason I didn't fancy telling him about Mr. Honda.

He didn't seem to believe me, but he didn't have the energy to question it either.

"Well, I have some things I need to do. Why don't you meet me for dinner tonight in the restaurant across the street? Then I'll tell you the rest of the story." Leaving it at that, Gilbert returned to his table and gathered his watch that he had left on the table. I wouldn't have left it personally; since I was convinced someone would steal it. He didn't appear to care anymore. I suppose when you lose your only brother, losing anything else is just an insignificant detail.

I left not long afterwards. The waitress, the same one from the day before, stood at the door. She bade me to have a good day and I returned the kindness. She giggled when I smiled and brushed away a strand of long hair from her face.

I drove back to Mr. Honda's place and went through the forest with even more ease that before. Mr. Honda kneeled before the sliding doors, looking out into the forest. When he spotted me he gave me a kind smile.

"Hello, Mr. Williams."

"Hello, Mr. Honda," I said, slipping off my shoes and entering the house. I pulled my satchel off my shoulder and dug through it, finding the bigger of the wrapped parcels. I took it out and gave it to Mr. Honda with a polite bow.

He looked at it in surprise, taking it in his hands and feeling it with his fingers. "You didn't have to get an old man like me a present."

"I thought I would, anyway." I smiled. He thanked me as he opened the package and examined the figure inside.

"It's very cute, and also somewhat mysterious, too." He stood up and walked to his kitchen, placing the figure on the counter. "Thank you," he said, admiring it from a distance before returning to sit by me.

"Before we start the story," I said, remembering what I had forgotten the previous visit, "I was wondering: do you know anything about my brother? His future, his present…? I'm worried for him."

"Yes, he suffered that accident. Didn't he?" Mr. Honda said, sitting across from me. He hadn't set the table up yet. I was earlier than usual and I didn't want tea anyway.

I crossed my legs and placed my hands on my knees, watching him expectantly.

"I'm not an oracle, Mr. Williams, so I can't give you your fortune whenever I please. However, I can give you a vague explanation, I suppose."

"Vague or not, I want some sort of idea I can grapple with, something to set my mind at ease. I wish I called him earlier, actually." My brother wasn't stupid, but he could be rather oblivious to danger and plunge right in at any moment. Our mother would worry herself sick over him, pulling me to her side and asking for my quiet comfort.

"Yes… Alfred will change. His life will be swept upstream into new courses faster than even he can handle. But nothing will be all bad or all good. Sometimes it will seem like a lot of bad things have clumped together and hurled themselves at him, and other times good things will rain down on him. I think I can offer you something more concrete, actually, and that's that he will receive the best present in his life very soon."

I thought about the keychain in my pocket and wondered if that was it. Then I came across thinking about my own future. It made me nervous and weary, like a high school student considers his or her life ahead.

"Thank you Mr. Honda," I said quietly.

"I feel ready to tell you the third and final part of my story, now," he said.

"I'm ready, too." I put my notepad on my lap and readied my pen.

Sighing to collect his thoughts, he began:

* * *

I remained sitting there with Feliciano for a long while, even after his death. I forgot to count the days or hours, and I had no means to either. I'm sure I was there for at least a day. I couldn't feel hunger, only a gnawing thirst. But sorrow swelled so deep in my chest that hunger was a petty trouble. Eventually, however, I needed to get going. Something drove me on, some deep need to live. I squirmed out of the rope at my wrists, which were surprisingly loose. It took nearly an hour, or what felt like one, to finally free myself of them. I then undid the binds at my feet and stood up. My legs trembled. I thought I would topple over so I slowed down, looking over at Feliciano.

Empty eye sockets glared at the ground, blood trailed down his cheeks like tear stains. I didn't know how to tell him goodbye. I choked with sobs and trembled at the thought of leaving him alone without a burial, but I needed to get going. I walked back to the tent and tried to find something that would be of use. Most of our supplies had been destroyed or stolen. I dug through one of the bags and found a cracked radio, but still functional. I called for help on it. I didn't care if someone interfered with the signal. I knew no one would, however. I told them that I was the only one alive and that the message was not delivered, but destroyed. I didn't have the energy to make it to HQ to deliver that news. My vision was blanking on me, shifting in and out of reality.

I put on some extra pants I found that hadn't been stolen and a shirt, but I felt cold. I felt horribly chilled, down to the bone even though it wasn't cold outside at all. I took one of our canteens and drained it, digging for food, but all of it had been destroyed. I planned to sleep. Weariness stripped me of wakefulness like a child rips petals from a flower. But I needed to make sure I wasn't being tracked. I exited the tent again. The tent itself rattled haphazardly in the wind. Some of its legs must have been damaged by the intruders. Outside I went to where the horses were. One had escaped, one was severely injured, and the other was dead. The injured one moaned in such humanoid tones I thought it was a man at first. Blood spirit from the bullet wounds like water from a fountain. The intruders must have shot it so we couldn't escape. I didn't think I could watch any more death so I returned to the tent and lay down on the hard, dry dust. I fell asleep listening to the groans and whining.

I slept for a very long time.

When I woke up I was already in a hospital. I drearily opened my eyes and tried to understand what was happening. I'm sorry, Mr. Williams, but the details of this time are so unclear. All I remember is the moment I woke up a nurse stood over me. This part I remember clearly, as though it had happened an hour ago. She had dark hair tied up and under a little white hat. Her sleeves were short and exposed her long arms. She patted my forehead with something damp and placed something cold against my chest, probably to listen to my heart beat. After that I lost consciousness again.

The next time I woke I was looked over by the Lieutenant who sent us out on the mission. He shook his head slowly, as if disappointed in me. I muttered an apology. When I fell asleep again that time I dreamt. I remember the dream very well.

I was in a white hall. It stretched out seemingly into infinity. I couldn't see an end, no matter which way I looked. To my sides the walls were blank and smooth. I had no choice but to walk. I went forwards, on and on and on and on. The hall unfurled before me, never ending. I walked for what felt like days, though I felt no exhaustion or starvation. There was a constant beeping sound ringing in my ears. I understood later that it came from the heart monitor beside me. I reached a door at last and reached over to open it, but my hands touched only air. There was no handle. The door itself was clearly defined by the crevice it made in the wall. I pushed and shoved at it, pulling with my fingernails, and at one point it did open. On the other side of the room I heard screams. They were Feliciano's and Ludwig's. The sounds wrapped together, twisting into a taught rope of sound that tore into my muscles, into my bones, into my nerves—into my very being.

I woke up after that and remained awake until I was dismissed a week after my arrival. I had lost a considerable amount of weight, but I was no longer at a dangerous level either. I went home finally to my family. I remained at my parent's home, tended to by my mother and comforted somewhat with by my father. I regained my health and enough psychological strength to find a job.

After I got a job in publishing I made enough money to rent my own apartment. I tried my best to forget the past, to forget all that happened, but I couldn't. It haunted my every waking moment. I could not make any more friends. I never married nor had a partner besides the few I hosted in my school years. I hardly remember who they were. I spent ten years in the company and then moved through jobs, becoming at one moment well-to-do and at another impoverished. Finally I settled with a job as an accountant, which I had originally been trained to do, all the way until I bought this house and retired fifteen years ago.

My family went down their life course, I visited funeral after funeral, and even then I didn't feel much.

* * *

"Even now, Mr. Williams, I still hear the screams. I still smell the blood. I still wonder why I couldn't die, why fate had to be so cruel to me." Mr. Honda looked at me and examined my eyes. I felt that if I peered back, looked inside him, then I would smell the blood and hear the screams.

I recalled how I had come in contact with Mr. Honda. I was browsing around for stories to put in my book and people to interview. At the time I didn't want to leave the country, or even the province, but a college of mine said she had a friend who was a relative of Mr. Honda's. She told me about how he had been sent on a secret mission and how it may fit in my book.

"If his mission was so interesting," I retorted, "then they probably would have covered it."

"Actually, he's never told it to anyone," she replied. "But I doubt that will change for you. I'll talk with my friend and see if you could correspond with him."

She talked to the friend and I gave her my mailing address. No longer than a week passed that I received a letter from Mr. Honda. I contemplated going to Japan and sapping most of my money for the trip. But then again it would make my Japanese classes in college worthwhile and I would have a trip to remember for the rest of my life. So, I packed my bags and left. Once in Japan it took some time to locate the town he lived in. I rented a car, found the hotel, and there I was.

"Thank you so much for telling me your story, Mr. Honda. I understand that it must have taken a lot of energy to tell it, and cost you a good deal of pain," I said.

Mr. Honda spread his fingers out on his knees, looking down at them. "No, you mustn't thank me for that. I needed to tell the story anyway. It was bound to come out sooner or later. And speaking of those times has softened their impact on me. Perhaps soften isn't the right word, but they certainly made them more bearable. I doubt I will ever forget, even in my most senile hours."

I thanked him again and looked back out into the forest. I could see how the dirt path sloped up a hill and cut through the forest before being swallowed by vegetation. The sky was mostly clear, but over cast in the horizon, as though the clouds had slipped down the glove and settled in that position where the earth met with the horizon. The sun shone down, giving everything a soft glow.

"Mr. Honda?" I said, turning back to him.

"Yes?"

"Would you care to join me and an acquaintance for dinner tonight? I'll come by and pick you up." Before I knew what I was saying, I had said it. Now the words hung in the air. I was tempted to pull them back, but they were long gone.

Mr. Honda considered this.

"I would enjoy that very much, but I will walk there. I need the walk anyway."

"The place is—oh, but you know don't you?"

Mr. Honda nodded.

"Until then," I stood up, collected my shoes, and left.

I drove straight to the hotel, catching a glance of the restaurant as I passed. It was closed now. The curtains were drawn and the door was locked. Several advertisements hung on the windows, peeling at the corners. I parked my car and went to the room, greeting the receptionist as I walked by.

In the room I fell down on the bed, my hands on my stomach and my legs hanging over the edge. I closed my eyes, feeling strangely sleepy. I would nap until then, I decided, and my head rolled to the side on the pillow, sleep overcoming me.

I didn't dream.

When I woke up it was time to go. I grabbed my satchel, preparing to pay for the meal, and glanced in the mirror. I didn't hate my appearance. I never really did, not even when I had a mouthful of braces and zits spotting my cheeks. Now freckles clustered at my cheek bones and nose, even though I didn't spend that much time in the sun. I pulled my hair back and tied it with a loose piece of string, and left.

I walked to the restaurant to find Gilbert already there. We went to a table with four seats. I explained that I had invited a friend, one that he may enjoy meeting. Gilbert took this in without a change of attitude.

"The more the merrier," he said, in fact.

The waitress came by and asked if we wanted a drink. We both ordered a beer. When she left, her skirt swinging, Mr. Honda finally arrived. He no longer wore his kimono. Instead he wore dress pants and a cotton dress shirt, looking almost young again. He sat with us and called the waitress over, ordering a glass of water.

She came back with the water and beers, taking our orders next. I ordered some fish, like last time, and the others ordered something else that I didn't pay attention too. We did not speak. She brought back the meal and we ate, slurping loudly to indicate our pleasure with the food.

Once we were half-way done with our meal, Gilbert began to speak. He asked simple questions about me and about Mr. Honda.

"So, we all met because of Operation 52, huh?" Gilbert said, indicating a transition in our conversation. "And you were there, weren't you?" He asked Mr. Honda.

Mr. Honda responded in the affirmative.

"I see… So, what happened to my brother?"

Mr. Honda then gave him an extremely abbreviated version of the story, telling him about how the lieutenant gathered them, about the desert, and about how they were discovered. He told him that Ludwig was dead. How he came to be so, he abstained from saying. Perhaps he didn't have the energy or he did not want to sadden Gilbert.

Once we finished we went outside and that was the last time I saw either of them. I never exchanged addresses or any sort of contact data with Gilbert and he did not give me any inclination to indicate that he wanted any in the first place.

The next day I exited the hotel, returned the car, and boarded my plane ride back home. Once there I drained the last of my savings to see Alfred in the US. When I saw him he was able to walk around just fine. He still had a sickly bruise on his ribs, but otherwise was at rest.

He invited me to dinner and I stayed; my car outside ready to take me home at any time. I gave him his gift and he thanked me for it, putting it on his pocket and hugging me in gratitude.

We ate and I described my trip, giving him a brief synopsis of Mr. Honda's tale. I was happy to see him anyway. Just as I prepared to leave his house and go home there was a knock on the door: three timid taps. He stood up and went over, opening the door. At his doorstep, just like all those strange fairytales, was a basket. Inside a baby was bawling, its tiny fists beating against the blanket. Pinned to the top of the basket was the note. Alfred took the baby home, confused, but there was a layer of thick elation on his face.

"A baby, huh?" he said.

I understood what the biggest gift he would receive was, then.

The next day I went home. He had several of his friends come and go to keep the baby, up until the baby—a girl—was five, and then he married and settled down.

The day after the baby's arrival, back at home, I began to search for a job. The notepad I had was crammed with Mr. Honda's story, up to the last page where my handwriting got squished together.

A couple weeks later I received news of Mr. Honda's death. The news hit my like a freight train. I ceased to sleep well. For a month I thinned and survived on bread and water. I wanted my mother and Alfred to pet my hair and comfort me, but none were in sight.

I never wrote that book.

I found a job at a bank and somehow paid off all my debts. I hadn't heard word from Alfred in years. I had shut myself off from the world.

And, for some reason, I didn't feel lonely.

I imagined that this was how Mr. Honda felt. He must have suffered like I had. Even though I hadn't received his events first hand, the mere sharing of them had poured half the pain into me. That's why I didn't write the book. Even when I was rather old and I had found the notepad, I still didn't want to share it with the world.

The world was vaster than I used to think. Sure, I knew it was real big and full of tunnels and passageways, but all those little details in between are what became visible at the time. Each body that roamed the earth had its own being and its own memories. Many thought they were an independent entity, and others understood that they were just another piece of the machine. Whenever I hear that the world is "imperfect" I'm bound to disagree.

The world is perfect. The world is not the perfect one usually imagines, however. It's not clean or peaceful, but in its dirt and chaos there is a perfect balance. The world is balanced so precariously. People roam the earth and make up a part of that perfection. Even the dirt under my fingernails is perfect. If one thing was off the world would be thrown out of balance, and then it would be imperfect.

But there was so much more to people, a whole new level of understanding that Kiku knew about. I wish I had asked him at the time. But even that is perfect.

Maybe that was the purpose of Operation 52.


End file.
